 Whitehall 1212! For the first time in its history, Scotland Yard opens its official files to bring you the true stories of some of its most baffling cases. These are the true stories, honest facts just as they occurred, reenacted for you by an all British cast. Only the names have for obvious reasons been changed. The broadcasts are presented with a full cooperation of Scotland Yard. Research on Whitehall 1212 is finished by Percy Hoskins, Chief Crime Reporter of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. You will now hear the voice of Chief Superintendent John Davidson, the man in charge of Scotland Yard's famous black museum. A great many of the visitors to the black museum here rather expect to find a series of tableaus of gory murders complete with ghouls flitting about from corner to corner and bloodstained doublets. They're often quite astonished to discover a place that rather resembles the old curiosity shop. Although I confess I bear but slight resemblance to a little male. A great many of our exhibits here are quite innocuous in appearance, although most of them have been eyewitnesses to murder. For example, this one. It's a ridicule. A woman's homemade handbag crocheted a yellow string. It accompanied a woman to her death. Sergeant Neil Poole had, I think, most to do with finding the murderer. Your turn, Sergeant Moore. This girl was found dead near Maidstone in Kent early in the morning on the 14th of October a few years ago. Really quite chilly morning as October's in England are likely to be. Your Chief Constable of Kent had requested assistance from the Metropolitan Police. That's Scotland Yard, you know. And I was assigned. Maidstone is about 40 miles from where New Scotland Yard is situated in London on what used to be called the Old Kent Road. And there was no great feat to drive there in an hour and a half. I was directed by the police constable at the scene of the discovery to the local mortuary where I met Sergeant Miles Bowley of the Kent Constabulary. Oh, yes, Sergeant. Paul glad to see you. We didn't expect you so quickly. The chaplain of the Flying Squad brought me down in a new jaguar. Wish we had one. What kind he got? Mark Seven Saloon, bloody thing, flying. I rode in one once. Well, I'd like to come in and have a look at her. I haven't had my breakfast yet. She's not going to upset you. Very clean, strangling job. Oh. How long have you had her? Let's see, uh, seven forty-four now. Two hours about. Five forty. Five thirty-five to be exact. In here. Wasn't light yet. Just on sunrise. Milk roundsman saw a line beside the road. Don't have many customers in here. Not many, no. This is the lady. Pretty. Very. You see, looks as if her scarf or something of the like had been twisted around her neck. Medical examiner hasn't been here yet, huh? Not yet. Any idea who she was? Not the foggyist. Nothing to identify her, huh? Not a bloody thing. What have we done? Well, we, we have a man out there where she was found trying to find something. Uh-huh. Perhaps she'd like to go out there. Yes, I think so, presently. Nothing in any of the pockets of this dress? Or did you... Pockets were empty. Had she been... No, lying there quite peacefully. Looks as if she'd been walking along the road and fallen down. You've checked the spell of the founder, of course. Yes, of course, old boy. Aunty didn't recognize her if she's from around here and you think her milkman didn't know everyone? He didn't know her. We'll ask him again when we find who she is. Where's her other shoe? Haven't found it. The customer was looking for it. She certainly wasn't going for a walk in this kind of a shoe. City type. Not very worn, either. Though that's not exactly a city dress, is it? It's like most girls wear around here. Well, don't look like a working girl's hands, either. I shouldn't say so, either. I'd like to have a talk with this milkman. Whenever you like. I'll have him brought in. Right. Suppose we might go and look at the place he found her now? Well, we don't have a Jaguar 7 saloon. But if you'll ride in my Ford. I was happy to ride in his Ford to the roadside spot where a constable waited clutching the missing shoe. That was all he had found. No indication of a struggle, no footprints. I checked up myself most exhaustively. Nothing. The milkman whom I interviewed told a most straightforward story. A little spry old man who knew all his customers intimately and was well and favorably known by them all. My suspicions of him abated for the moment. The other shoe which the constable had found under a gorse branch was no help, either, except that it implied that the wearer was more accustomed to city pavements than to country roads. The medical examiner gave us his report at the Maidstone police station. Ah, yes, that report. Well, there isn't a great deal to the report. Death was due to strangulation, of course. You know how she was strangled, sir? Apparently by cloth of some kind, a scarf or neck cloth, perhaps. There are no discernible marks of hands or fingers on throat. Why, she... She was not criminally assaulted, no. There are bruises on the right thigh, however, which were almost certainly made by a large hand much larger than hers. Now, I've had them photographed in actual size here. This negative is of her hands to the same scale. Marks were made by a hand much bigger than old Charlie Brooks, too. Brooks. And the milkman, doctor. Criminal assault was attempted, doctor. I'm a doctor, sir, not a detective. Yeah. There is one curious circumstance which may have an effect on your investigation, surgeon. Yes, sir. And judging by conditions indicated, without making an autopsy, the body of the young woman was held in an upright position for some time after death. An upright position? Either a standing or a sitting position, yes. What could that indicate, doctor? I have no idea, surgeon. Though I might hazard a guess, by all means. What, sir? Well, I'm not a detective. Well, that's all we know. But if the young woman had been riding, perhaps, in a motor car, but that's absurd, isn't it? If she was brought there by motor car from somewhere else, that'd be why nobody here'd recognize her. Wouldn't it, belly? At 11 o'clock the next morning, the 15th of October, I was informed that Sergeant Bowley had uncovered additional information about the dead woman. I hurried to the mortuary where I found her in conference with a tearful middle-aged woman who I noticed at once bought a striking resemblance to the dead girl in the mortuary. He introduced us. Mrs. Christie, Sergeant Paul. How do you do, ma'am? Sergeant. Mrs. Christie has identified the young woman for us, Paul. It's my sister, Daphne. Mrs. Christie's other sister telefounder from London. My sister Diana. Daphne started into London to visit her yesterday morning like she does every week. She never got there. How did you discover that, Mrs. Christie? She had a telephone call this morning from the sister in London. From Diana. And I tried to telephone the police, and they said I'd better come at once. It is Diana. And where do you live, Mrs. Christie? I used to live here in Madison, but we've... I mean, I have her cottage at my own six miles out from the city now since my husband died. Daphne and I lived in... What would I do with her? And that is her in there. Oh, Daphne... She's identified her. Yes. When did you last see her, Mrs. Christie? Yesterday morning. You have any idea who... Daphne didn't have an enemy in the world. She was the sweetest, the kindest... Of course, Mrs. Christie, but is there anybody at all that you could think of that might... No! You said she went into London every week. Yes. How did she go in by bus or train or... She hitchhiked. Hitchhiked. Catch rides with anyone who came along. That's what she did. But Lord doesn't... Didn't she know how dangerous... I told her, I told her. I said, Daphne, darling, you never know. That's right, Mrs. Christie. A million times I've warned her, Daphne. I said, a day'll come. But she'd always laugh at me. Look at the money I saved for sweets. She'd say, oh, she adores sweets. And I'd say, a day'll come. And so it has come. And the things that she was carrying, Mrs. Christie... What? The things that are missing. Oh, she was robbed then. Oh, that was the attaché case. She was carrying an attaché case. Well, not really an attaché case, Sergeant. An old passport folder it was. But she carried it so long, we always called it the attaché case. It could be identified. Just a cardboard folder. It could be identified, though. It was just an old brown passport. Oh, it did have her name on it. What did she carry in it, Mrs. Christie? Just a few photographs that Diana had lent her. She was taking them back to London to her. Brenda's collared to be mended. Brenda? Brenda's Daphne's doggy. She's a little King Charles Spaniel. Oh, darling little Brenda, she'll grieve so. Oh, Daphne. And the dog's collar was also in this passport folder. Oh, no, I remember it. It was in the reticule. It wasn't in the attaché case. It was in the reticule. There was also a reticule, Madam? Oh, is it gone, too? We didn't find it. A little yellow string reticule. I crocheted for Daphne for a birthday gift last year. Oh, Daphne. At this point, Mrs. Christie broke down completely and had to be taken away in a hysterical condition, unable to give us any further information. Upon recovering that same evening, she was able to supply a list of names of various acquaintances of her sister, and her Bolle's request found strength enough to set about crocheting a duplicate of the yellow string reticule, which she alone was able to do accurately. The result of most intricately contrived affair, which she completed during the small hours of the night of 15, 16 of October, was carefully photographed and the Prince given general circulation in the hope that anyone recognizing it would communicate with us. It was, of course, obvious that the possessor of the original would also possess information of which we stood in need. Four days later, the original was returned to us. We shouted to Mrs. Christie. That's it. That's it. That's Daphne's reticule that I made. You see, it's just exactly like the one I made for memory for you. I remember it perfectly. Sergeant Bolle asked the woman who returned it where she had got it. He reported to us. Her name is Mrs. Jessie Bowen, B-O-W-E-N. I never heard Daphne mention the name. She says she didn't know your sister. Where did she get it then? She says it was given to her by a Mrs. Adelaide Greenbaum. I never heard that name either. Where did she get it? We're looking for her. We found Mrs. Adelaide Greenbaum. She admitted giving the yellow string reticule to Mrs. Bowen. Where did she found it? We've been given to her by a Miss Polly Kavanaugh, she said. Who's this Polly Kavanaugh, I asked Bolle. We'll find her. We did. We found her visiting a cousin, a retired corporal major of household cavalry living at Alfringham. Yes, she had given the reticule to Mrs. Greenbaum. Where had she got it? I'm certain Mrs. Emily Beverage had presented it to her, she said. I'm sure I'd never heard of Mrs. Beverage. I'll find her. I'm getting a little tired of reticules, though, sergeant. Mrs. Emily Beverage agreed as she happily brewed a pot of excessively weak tea for the sergeant that she'd given the bloody thing. But that was Bolle's own phrase to Mrs. Kavanaugh. And where had she got it, I asked? You may believe it or not, old boy, but Mrs. Beverage's original cheer shows me. Reginald? I have thoughtfully brought Reginald with me. Where is he? Reginald! Yes, sir. This is Reginald, sergeant, poor. Reginald Apgar, sir. I'm Mrs. Beverage's nephew. Sit down, young man. Yes, sir. Did you know Miss Daphne... what was her name, Bolle? Cordwayner. Daphne Cordwayner? No, sir. You didn't know her? No, sir. First, sir. That yellow string bag you gave your aunt. Oh, that. I found it, sir. When? Why, the, uh, the 15th of this month, sir. Why are you so sure of that date, young man? It's my aunt, Emily's birthday, sir. I gave it to her as a birthday gift. It was no use to me. Tell him where you found it, Reginald. Oh, uh, floating in Beltane's Tarn, sir. Where? Beltane's Tarn is upon poor. I doubt Beltane the Smith ever was there, sir, but it's supposed to be haunted by him. Tell him where it is, Reginald. Oh. Well, sir, it's about a quarter of a mile from the road. Tell him what road? Oh, the road, sir, where old Charlie Brooks found that girl's body. Tell him what girl's body, Reginald? Oh, uh, well, that Miss Daphne... Daphne Cordwayner. Well, did you murder her, Reginald? Why, no, sir. I didn't murder her. What were you doing there? Well, sir, I'm a scout master, sir. Speak up. Well, uh, I introduced bird-watching in my troupe. We've been quite successful, too. I mean rather bird photography more than bird-watching. Do you photograph wildlife, Sergeant? I do not. Go on, Reginald. Well, I'd heard that plover were quite plentiful around Beltane's town. The first this year, you know. And having nothing better to do, I took my camera kit. I have an Adam's Minix 4x5. Jolly good camera, though. Yes, yes, I'm sure. Will you get to the point, please? Why, no necessity be rude, sir. I'm getting on. Sorry. Let him tell it his way, poor. May I go on, sir? If you please. Well, there weren't any plover. I did see a partridge in plumage, though, but he flew away before I could get my camera open. You know an Adam's Minix, sir. Wonderful camera, but... I don't know anything about it, now please get on with it. Well, then I walked down to the town, and there was this thing floating in the water. So I picked it up, rung it out, and took it home to Aunt Emily. Is this true? Honour's scouts, honours, sir. How did he get there? My dear man, how could I possibly know? That's exactly what I'm trying to find out, young man. I'm sure I don't understand you, sir. It may be that you will in time. Would you be willing to accompany me to this place? To Beltane's town, sir. Would you be willing to accompany me and Sergeant Bowley here to this place and help us find whatever else we might be able to find, Reginald? Oh, I forgot to tell you, sir. I found something else, but I doubt it's very important. What? This piece of pasteboard, sir. It's apparent they've been torn from one of those cheap Natasha cases. Probably doesn't mean anything. Let's have a look, poor. Wait a sec. But it's got that name written on it in pencil. What name? Daphne. Look, see here. Yes, I see. Reginald, would you mind waiting a moment out in the other room, please? Not at all, sir. There, if you please. Yes, sir. There is either the most naive young man I've ever seen, Bowley. Thanks, sir. Or the wickedest. Do you think he's too young to hang, old boy? And so, clambering over hill and dale in the manner of a red Indian, I followed Reginald Apgar from the spot where the body was found in search of Beltane's town. Miles Bowley followed doggedly in trace, grunting like the behemoth of holy writ. This time of the year, the Kentish countryside is suitable only for hairs, underbrush, clover, and youthful scalp masters, not for policemen in their piety. How much further is it in Gog's name? Quarter of a mile from the road, Reginald said. Where's he gone? Don't ask me. Probably coursing up and down like a blasted ferret. I don't think ferrets course. Neither do I. Call him. Gone away, the little blighter. Reginald! Why, nurse, you wanted to come out here with him? He's more than I'll ever know, poor. It's a good spot for a confessional, boy. Reginald! I wouldn't believe this country like this left in England. Reginald! Calling me, sir. Reginald. Where have you been? On the other side of the wall, sir. Wall? What wall? Oh, there's a wall across the path here. It's only nine or ten feet high. Nine or ten feet? Can't we go around it? Why not? Oh, it's two miles long. Too much trouble. But we can hop over it. Come along, follow me. Hey, hey, hey, Reginald. Wait. Yes, sir? Is this the only way to that blasted lake? Yes, sir. The only way? Oh, it isn't far now, sir, after we climb the wall. Let's sit down. Oh, my feet. Look here, Reginald. Yes, sir? Where in heaven's name are you now? Up here on top of the wall, sir. Top of the wall? It's not as high as I thought, sir. It's only about eight feet. Come down here like a human being. Yes, sir. Don't jump on my feet, boy. Those are my feet, sir. You shook the grab. Sorry, sir. Look here, Reginald. Yes, sir? I think the time has come to ask you a question or two. All right, sir. Well, sit down. Yes, sir. I want to ask you. Do you really expect us to believe that whoever murdered Daphne Cordwayner took that yellow reticule of hers? What, sir? The little yellow string bag. Oh, yes, sir. Do you expect us to believe that the murderer took that thing and carried it through this infernal underbrush and up over that 15-foot wall? It's only eight feet. Well, whatever it is, do you expect us to believe that he carried that thing all this way through all this... Impenetrable forest? Yes, just to throw it in the lake down there for the unutterably foolish purpose of making fools of Scotland Yard. And the Kent Constabulary? Reginald? I know, sir. What? I expect he threw it in the stream back there by the cider mill, and it floated to the tarn, sir. Sirs? What stream? What cider mill? Why, back there where we started, sir. The cider mill's down the road, on a little by-road. Well... About a mile to from Maidstone where we came in. I thought you knew about it. Did you, Burley? I remembered years ago, but I'd forgotten. Besides... Burley, I could kill you cheerfully. Poor I would cheerfully submit. Oh, my... My feet. What about the stream you're talking about, young Reginald? It's only a little stream, sir. It runs through the woods, part of its underground. Can't tell where it runs until it comes out in the tarn. Never dries up, and it... Could he have thrown those things in the stream? Oh, yeah, they'd float right down to the tarn, sir. Come along, I'll show you. How'd we get there? Right back the way we came, sir. My feet. Here's what I want you to do, Burley. Oh, no. If you don't want to go back and find the cider mill... It's only about a quarter mile along the road after we get there, sergeant. I'll never make it. Very well. You sit here and rest, old boy. I'll go back and find the cider mill. Poor... You're a gentleman. And then Reginald will come back and show you how to find the tarn, and you wait there and see if my notebook, which I'm going to throw in the stream, arrives safely. But... And if it doesn't... Oh, it will, sir. Things always do float down. And if it doesn't, then you'll have the honour of arresting the young man who's made a fool of us. Who's he, sir? Do you see, Burley? I don't understand. Who's he, sir? Never you mind, Reginald. You'll find out, my boy. So long, Burley. I hope you're a good wall climber. Reginald showed me the weary way back to the road to the cider mill, to the stream. He bounded away again full of the vitality of youth, as I sat by the stream's edge and panted and watched him hasten away full of energy. They'd taken 20 minutes to shepherd Burley to Belton's tarn over the stone wall. Would take half an hour, he said, for anything to float down the stream to its destination in the tarn. So there was plenty of time. I walked over to the ancient building that was the mill and sat down on a pile of brand-new bricks that stood in front of the door at the edge of the lane. An equally ancient cider maker came out to see who called. Hello, I said. Hello. Boy, you want a supper cider? I bless you in my prayers, my friend. All right. Come on in. With the greatest of pleasure, I assure you. Help yourselves, mate. Your health, gaffer. Oh, drink high, sir. Good, eh? Man. Eh, quite a journey through the wood just to toss a thing in the tarn stream, eh? Many people do it. Brings luck, they say. Well, hasn't brought me no luck in 54 years. See, you're going to do a little repairing, eh? Repair? Where? The new bricks, I mean, out there. Bricks don't come from around here, do they? Cambridge. Oh? They've been sitting out there ever since 14th of this month. 14th? 14th, yeah. Every man comes here has to try the tarn stream. Now, that great ox what brought the bricks tore up a cardboard sack and throwed it in. He did? Cardboard sack? Yeah, great envelope-like. Everybody throws something in. Brings them luck. I never brought anybody any luck. What is it? Uh... Superstation? He'd throw anything else? This lorry driver that brought you the bricks? My crikey, he did. Some kind of little yellow purse. It looked like he stole it from his girl. He threw it right in the water. It's right down there in old Beltane's town. Right this minute. I won't bring him any luck down there. I wouldn't be surprised if you're right, friend sider maker. You've got to throw something in too. No, no. I think I'll go find the lorry driver that threw the girl's purse in. I won't bring him any luck. It might. No. It might bring him bad luck. It did. We found him at Cambridge loading his lorry in the brickyard. We asked him if he'd killed Daphne Cordwanner. After a while, he said he did. Well, picked her up to give her a ride. But she was on her way to London. You weren't going to London? Well, she tried to rob me of my purse. She was a thief. Where did you have your purse? Well, it was hanging on a peg in the back. And she was stealing it? She was. She attacked me while I was driving. How'd she get back there to steal it? While you were driving. What was your jacket doing back there? Where else would you want me to hide it? You were driving your lorry at five in the morning of a cold October morning. Well, I didn't think it was cold at all. I took my jacket off. It wasn't cold. In the rain? In your shirt sleeves? Well, the rain didn't get in the window. It wasn't cold. My sleeves were down. He had the bad luck to be able to think of nothing but lies. And with the four convictions, the CRO dug up all of them for attacking women. He was tried for murder. He was found guilty. He was hanged at once with prison in January of the next year. Here today on Whitehall 1212 in the order of their appearance were Harvey Hayes, Horace Brayham, Guy Spall, Lester Fletcher, Kathleen Cordell, Steve Forster, and Pat O'Malley, Lionel Rico speaking. Whitehall 1212 is written and directed by Willis Cooper. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.